


Some things are just harder to say

by TheSmidge



Series: And my only defence is the worst of me [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Adultery, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSmidge/pseuds/TheSmidge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It shouldn't mean anything to him, other than relief he supposes, that it should be the end to this  chapter of his life. However he can’t stop the thoughts running through his mind, tugging at abandoned strings. It feels wrong to accept that they are leaving a man to die, regardless of the fact they all knew what they were worth, how Waller held them with such contempt, tools to be disposed of when no longer of any use. The Suicide Squad, Deadshot had called them. </i>
</p><p>
Prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4105036">And when all of your friends are my enemies</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some things are just harder to say

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to [And when all of your friends are my enemies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4105036). 
> 
> This fic has been such a pain to write. It's also had about a million rewrites and plot changes. Still not sure I'm 100% happy with it...

They spend dinner together whenever they can. Cutting out time for themselves. More often than not one has to run off, something pressing they have to deal with. However they still start the meal together, pretend in some small way they are regular people with normal jobs. They tend to put Sera to bed before sitting down, a true couples meal.

They talk about their day, about the missions they've been on in the time they've not seen one and other. While it is a routine something feels different this time. A tension hangs over them. The sense that Lyla is holding something back as she speaks. There is an edge to her words that belies the carefree way she regales him with tales of life at ARGUS. Eventually her words taper off, and with a sigh she switches topic. 

“We got a report that Deadshot has been captured, held for ransom. Waller is refusing to send anyone in, so it looks like we won’t have to worry about him anymore.” It's an off hand remark, an update on her day. Either way the words hold weight. “I just thought I’d let you know, after what he did to your brother. I thought.” She waves her hand as she takes a sip of her wine effectively ending the conversation before it even began, clearly feeling she has done her job by telling him. 

It shouldn't mean anything to him, other than relief he supposes, that it should be the end to this chapter of his life. However he can’t stop the thoughts running through his mind, tugging at abandoned strings. It feels wrong to accept that they are leaving a man to die, regardless of the fact they all knew what they were worth, how Waller held them with such contempt, tools to be disposed of when no longer of any use. The Suicide Squad, Deadshot had called them. 

No matter his feelings he can’t say any of that, can’t let Lyla know that it’s affecting him, that it’s taking all his willpower to stay sat there. Something must show on his face as Lyla questions him moments later.

“What are you hiding John?” She asks, accusation clear in her words. He thinks how to phrase the feeling of unease that curls in the pit of stomach. Images of Floyd flood his mind, but it’s more than that. More than how he feels. Honour, integrity, doing what's right. 

“I was just thinking about Sara.” The words scratch his throat, a lie he knows will haunt him. Still, he knows the truth would have been worse. 

Slight confusion darkens Lyla's features as she tries to find the connection. He can do nothing but wait for her to drop it.

“We’ve had similar conversations in the past John.” Lyla says at last, a sigh in her voice, accepting the lie. Accepting the excuse. It makes him feel worse.

He reaches across the table to her, lacing their fingers together. How he wishes things could be simpler, that his heart didn’t betray her like this. Thier first marriage had broken down due to him, his inability to reconnect once he was back home. They’d promised it would be different this time, that they found each other again because they were meant to be. It seems a lie now. But a lie Diggle doesn’t want to believe, to allow to fester so he buries it like so much else, ignores the dread that settles in his stomach, and smiles at her. Even though he knows he can't let this go.

* * *

Honour. That was all it was. Honour was what had him looking into Deadshot's mission using Lyla's clearance code to get into ARGUS' files.

The dossiers spell out quite clearly that it was a one way mission. He wonders if that is why Lyla told him, knew in someway he’d not drop this. Maybe she had organised it so Deadshot would be the one to do this, to tie up that last loose end. To do the thing he seemed so incapable of doing now.

None of that matters though, not now. Something must have gone wrong, or the group got greedy. Still it’s not hard to find them once he has access to the files. Reading the information he finds he can’t see why no escape had been planned. The group is small time, unorganised, and sloppy. Deadshot should have been able to get away even if something did go wrong. Nothing feels right to him but he can’t focus on that, has to put his doubts and worry to the back of his mind. 

A plan forms roughly in his head as he jumps into his car. The likelihood of being punished for rushing is high, but he needs to be quick, needs to get there before Lyla finds out what he is doing, before the captors get impatient.

An hour later he pulls up to the motel near where Deadshot is most likely being held. It’s small but well presented compared to other places he’s been. The owner pays him no mind as he takes the payment for the room. More than happy to turn a blind eye as he counts his payoff. No questions asked.

The room is dark a single bulb throwing little light out. Shadows cling to the corners, drawing the room in closer. The bed sits unmade against the far wall. A door on the left seemingly leads to the bathroom. Little else occupies the space, an old TV and table, with no chair, all that he can see. None of it matters though, he has no plans to stay here long, no need if all goes well.

Pulling out his meager supplies he refines his plan. Circles entry points on an old map. Checks his guns, and ammo. Barley giving himself time to recheck everything, he strides back outside towards the complex that looms in the distance, highlighted in the silvery moonlight. 

The darkness provides shadows he can hide in as he keeps watch over the guards, creeping inside the complex over a small wall. He finds himself in a large courtyard as drizzle begins to fall. He rounds the last corner towards the building's entrance having dodged the few milling guards with ease. Droplets run down the back of his neck, dripping under his collar. He finds himself focusing on it rather than what he's doing and he has to physically shake himself. Get his mind back on track. 

Water splashes as he walks, each footstep another chance at giving him away. The harder he tries to be quite the louder his movements sound to him. He knows logically it's nothing more than unfounded paranoia however the knowledge helps little. Thankfully he makes it to the gates unnoticed. There are guards stood in his way forcing him to cling to the walls as he moves closer to the entry point. It’s a small fire escape, with a half rusted and decaying ladder, that clings to the side of the building. Fortunately the ladder holds as he finds his way to the second floor. 

The floor is split by long walkways that connect the large open plan first floor to the closed rooms of the second. He makes his way across them slowly to the main set of rooms. He Ducks into each room he passes to check inside for Deadshot. Most are damp and abandoned with the visage of a horror movie. The few locked doors he shoots open and still he finds nothing. 

Deeper into the building it seems to get colder, a bitter wind howling through the close corridors. It's an indication of an opening somewhere, a door that leads to the outside. He can't decide if that is a good thing or not, regardless he carries on following the seemingly endless corridors until he reaches a stairway.

Cautiously he makes his way down them to find a basement level. It’s been crudely made into a cellblock, and like much else it is in a state of disrepair that has Diggle wondering how it's still stood. Green moss covers the far wall as water runs down to pool on the stone floor. It's cold and damp, the air almost difficult to breath in. Pressing his hands against the bars has them coming away covered in rust.

He finds Deadshot in a cell towards the back. A mottled and yellowing bruise just under his eye. It looks like the only wound from here but he expects there to be others hidden behind the dark clothes hanging from his frame. 

Deadshot turns towards him as he rattles the cell door. Shock painting his face for a second before it morphs into a more recognisable smirk. 

“Johnny-Boy!” He calls, voice quiet and laboured. “My knight in shining armour.” 

“Shut it Lawton.” Diggle snaps as Deadshot’s words hit someplace close to the truth. He needs to focus as he pulls a lock pick from his pocket. It's not the way he'd usually do things, but the door won't budge so he has little choice. The lock is fiddly, but he soon has it sussed, the door swinging open with a whine.

Deadshot stumbles to his feet and moves slowly towards Diggle, hands outstretched. It’s an action that has Diggle backing up slightly, though not enough to be noticeable.

“Don’t hold out on me John.” Deadshot says, his voice already sounding stronger. His hand pointing to Diggles back up weapon.

Diggle hesitates for a moment before passing it to Deadshot. Disappointment he can't place washing over him.

They move slowly back the way Diggle came. Taking the stairs two at a time. Eventually they make it to the floor Diggle entered on. The exit is only a few feet ahead of them, a sense of relief settles between them, but it’s premature as a gunshot rings out signaling the arrival of the guards on the other side of the walkway. They duck behind the railing of the walkway. It provides little in the way of cover but it’s better than nothing. Bullets ping off it loudly. 

The sound of approaching footsteps causes worry to settle over Diggle as he scours the area. His heart thuds under his breastbone. He needs to focus, centre himself once more, push through and use the adrenaline that courses through his veins. Briefly he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Settled slightly, he takes point and leads them along the walkway behind the small cover.

The exit comes into view. A slip of concentration has Diggle miss the guard that appears before them. He fumbles his gun, it takes to much time and the guard shoots before he can. Luckily Floyd manages to push Diggle out of the way, colliding with him on the floor, and getting his own shot off hitting the guard square in the chest.

Diggle pushes himself up, shame at his complacency clear on his face. He gets to his feet and clears the way of the remaining guards.  
“Come on, before they send more.” He calls over his shoulder to Deadshot. When no answer comes he glances back to see Deadshot struggle to get to his feet. Taking a step back he helps him to his feet.

“Shit.” Falls from Deadshot’s lips, forcing Diggle to grip tighter to him.

Once upright blood begins to soak through Deadshot’s clothing, a dark red stain at his waist just above his hip. Diggle reaches for him with worry etched on his face as his hands run up Deadshot’s arms. His fingers curl softly at the base of Floyd’s neck, thumbs pushing his head back. 

“Breath.” He whispers, not sure why or how it will help. They stay there staring at each other breathing in and out slowly. Heat begins pooling in Diggle’s stomach and he knows they have to move, and not because of the chance of more guards. Sluggishly he pulls away and forces himself back into action. Everything blurs into one once they clamber down the fire escape. They run as fast as Deadshot can manage, feet hitting hard against the ground. 

"Don't die on me." Diggle breathes out softly. 

"As if I would." Deadshot laughs back, a honestly to his words that Diggle can’t help but focus on as they make there way through the rain.

The room is cold and unwelcoming once they get inside and the orange glow of the lights do little to alleviate it. 

Deadshot falls to the single bed, peeling of his shirt, pulling it away from his still bleeding wound. It’s not too bad, and looks to stings more than anything. Still Diggle drops to his knees with a medkit, fingers inspecting the gouge as he wipes away the blood. His hands run softly over the cut as he stitches it up. Satisfied he casts aside his medkit and reaches for Deadshot’s face with bloodied hands. 

"It's a scratch, Johnny boy. No need to cry on me." 

Diggle snorts, but moves closer, holding himself a breath away. Eyes lost but searching. It's wrong, but he needs to know, needs to press closer. A slither of guilt all that's holding him back. But he needs to prove to himself Deadshot is alive. Nervous energy thrums through him as indecision claws at his mind. All of this and what has come before feels like it was leading here. That this is how he expected it to end. 

Deadshot smirks, pushing through the heady air to lean the rest of the way, hand cradling John’s head as their lips meet. It’s too soft, too intimate. A fire builds at the base of Diggles spin, tingles and ripples up towards the nape of his neck. The slide of lips changes, the angle better, sweeter. 

Diggle pushes Deadshot back, happy at the sound he makes when he hits the bed.

“Easy John.” Deadshot laughs, watching Diggle shift above him as he pulls off his shirt. Hands that move almost on their own reach out to run down the expanse of his cheat, fingertips stroking hard muscle. 

Diggle bites his lip, as Deadshot makes short work of his zip. Once free he does his best to shuck his jeans, but they stick and cling to his legs, sodden with rain. Making a grunt of frustration he shoves them down, ignoring the slight sting that occurs as they fall to his ankles. Goosebumps dance across his bare skin as the cool air hits the droplets of rain running down his spine. The bed creaks under his weight as he kneels over Deadshot. It shouldn’t be this easy and yet here he is. 

Leaning in he pressed a feather light kiss to the bruise under Deadshot's eye. With gentle hands he strokes down Deadshot's bared neck. A barely there press of his fingertips. 

Diggle appraises what he can see of Deadshot. He does his best to ignore the tattoos, focuses instead on cataloguing each wound that mars the expanse of skin, pressing kisses against each, elating in the hitch of Deadshot's breath. 

"What did they do to you?" Diggle breaths against the taut muscles of Deadshot's abdomen where a large purple bruise stands out starkly against pale skin.

He gets no answer, just shadows that play across Deadshot's face. They have him leaning backwards, a sudden need of distance. The need to collect himself, to realise how stupid he's being, how truly wrong this all is. 

The action does not go unnoticed by Deadshot, who pulls him back against him into a biting kiss. Hands pulling at unshed clothes, begging for something, anything. Giving his consent with a nod of his head and the soft cry of please.

Naked they fall against each other, skin against skin. They move together with sweat slicked skin. Desperate in a way Diggle can not explain, he doesn't want to stop, to pull away. Mind too slow to catch up to the meanings behind it all. The need grows. The wrongness melting against the fire that burns inside him. It's hard and fast, Deadshot leaving bruises on his skin, bite marks at his shoulder. He does as much back, leaves red marks in the wake of his nails. Kisses that taste of blood. Time loses meaning, the world outside of them too. 

An indescribable feeling of peace takes hold in the afterglow. The need to hold on. The desire to fold himself around Deadshot, to just be the two of them in the twilight.

* * *

It's still dark when they wake, the streetlights picking out little in the room. He's thankful for it. 

Deadshot presses too soft lips against his own, before slinking off satisfied, to the bathroom. It's better this way, with distance between them.

Diggle breaths slowly as his thoughts rush around. He needs to move, to scrub himself clean. To at least get dressed. But he's paralysed, as what he has done hits him. Nothing will make this right, but a part of him doesn't regret it. And he's scared by that. He tries to piece it all together, to reconcile his actions. None of it makes sense and he’s certain it never will.

The sound of the shower creates a soothing background noise that seeps into his bones. It would be easy to just leave. Yet he can’t, doesn’t want to. He’s not that much of a coward to not face this. Soaking in the quiet he jumps at the sound of his phone as it buzzes on the floor. Stealing himself he answers it, hardly surprised to hear Lyla on the other end of the line.

“Where are you?” She demands though there is a softness to her words. 

“I got him out.” 

“Why?” Her voice is defeated as she questions him. “How?” 

“There was little resistance, after Waller told them no, they must have thought he wasn’t worth the trouble.” It sounds plausible enough, and as much as he wants to know the truth he’s fine to believe that for now. He chooses to gloss over everything else, hoping not to be caught out if he has time to plan his words.

Lyla just hmms, clearly not persuaded by the answer but not wanting to push either. “I’ll see you after you’ve dropped him back at ARGUS.” She says brokering no argument and disconnecting from the call. 

Deadshot walks back into the room, hair damp. His clothes are stained but he looks clean enough. Diggle grabs his own things, pulling them on in a rush, suddenly caring more about getting out, getting home than anything else. 

They climb into his car with no preamble. The drive is silent, them both acting like nothing happened, which surprises him, having imagined Deadshot would dig and poke at it. Make thinly veiled comments. Allude to what happened just to provoke. 

Waller is waiting for them when they get to ARGUS. Diggle is almost expecting Deadshot to break the silent truce they have but he just follows Waller back to his cell, with a wry smile on his face.

Diggle watches them, only pulling out of the car park once Deadshot is out of sight. Worry and guilt churn together creating a queasy sort of dread. Lyla isn’t stupid, she’ll figure something out. Will know by the look of him. Still he prays she won’t notice anything different. 

That he won't feel different once he’s back home.


End file.
